


Raven's Recovery

by BodhiSeongBae



Series: Raven's Recovery and other drabbles [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Police, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Chocolate Milk mhmmm, Chronic Pain, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Crying, Crying During Sex, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gang Rape, Gay Sex, Girlfriend, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimacy, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Justice, Kissing, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Makes everything better, Men Crying, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mother-Son Relationship, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Original Character, Painful Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Police, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, References to Depression, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Violence, Survivor Guilt, Therapy, Trans Character, Triggering Material, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 02:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14661144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BodhiSeongBae/pseuds/BodhiSeongBae
Summary: At the age of twenty, Raven Harper was violently raped by two men at a public park in his hometown. Two years later, as he struggles to fight against relentless nightmares and heartbreaking anxiety, Raven asks his new girlfriend to help kill those scarring, traumatizing memories once and for all.





	Raven's Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> ALERT: THIS FIC contains EXTREMELY EXPLICIT material that will be triggering to those who have suffered through it themselves. PLEASE SKIP the sexual assault scene if this applies to you, if not for my sake, then for yours.  
> On the other hand, I hope this helps someone in need and going through crappy times. While I have yet to be a victim of this type of assault myself, I hope my portrayal was fairly accurate. If not, my intentions were not to offend or make fun of anyone.
> 
> Also, I only edited this once. So there might be a few mistakes cus I stare at laptop screens alllll day long!

On my way over to Henna’s apartment, I felt a little nervous.

 

I left my own shared apartment feeling sure and confident, but it faded the closer I got. Not that Henna had anything to do with it…she’s the only reminder I have left that doesn’t fail to make me calm, at-ease.

The week had been _very_ long, longer than usual, because I had been tormenting myself every hour, which I hadn’t done in over a year, up to this point. I was tormenting myself by going in between possibilities, reasons, motives behind my strange request—a request I was going to ask of Henna, my girlfriend.

On Thursday, I almost considered the option of asking my roommate to do it, but thankfully, I came to my senses. He/She’s a transgender, you see, and if I had asked him/her, it would have made things awkward and probably more uncomfortable for him/her than for me. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, and, the more I thought about it, didn’t really want to do what I was thinking of with him/her anyway.

I was going to Henna’s apartment to ask her if she would erase my memory.

It’s not what you’re thinking. She’s not some kind of freaky-ass witch or anything…I was just speaking metaphorically. Something happened to me two-years ago, you see—something very awful, so revolting it even made my father shed tears. I was going to ask something big of her, and the results, I guess, would end with her “erasing my memory.”

And so, I walked to her apartment on a warm autumn afternoon.

As I raised my hand to do our “secret knock,” I realized my hand was trembling; that got me even more worried, so I made a tight fist to make it go away and knocked on the door five times. A regular knock, but Henna insisted that no one else knocked like I did, therefore, she calls it our “secret knock.”

There was some socked-bounding on the other side, and Henna tore open the door, only to reveal her soft, deeply in-love expression.

“Hey Raven,” She smiled sweetly. “Done with your project?”

“No,” I shook my head, unable to resist a similar smile as I stepped through the entryway. “Just thought I’d come see you.”

Henna giggled and shut the door, embracing me in a tight hug, only for it to end-up as one of our usual hugs; cherishing, relaxed, and incredibly close. I don’t know why that is, but that’s one of the reasons why I’m so in love with her. The atmosphere always feels like that with Henna—even when we first met, about two-years ago, five months after my incident.

That’s just the way my life is supposed to be, apparently. Sweet and slow. Not that I mind in the slightest; we make a good match, Henna and I—which is exactly why I couldn’t find a reason behind being so damn nervous about what I wanted to ask of her. Nothing would change between us if she refused…we’re both laid-back, go-with-the-flow kind of people. Even when we’re agitated, it never overwhelms our composure.

So why was I on edge?

Henna, giggling louder, grabbed my hand and drug me over to the kitchen, where she had a glass of milk that was so chocolatey it was darker than the color of her mud-brown hair. I made a face at the scene, making her cackle in amusement.

“That’s…slightly unnerving, Henna.” I commented, watching as she tried to drink some without laughing. (She failed.)

“Nooo, it’s really good! Here—try some.”

Henna carefully lifted the full glass up, preparing to shove it in my direction. I stopped her hands and enjoyed the sound of her hysterical laughter. Yet another reason I can add onto the list of reasons why I love her; despite everything, no matter the situation or how bad of a mood I’m in, Henna’s giddy, strange type of humor can always make me laugh so hard my stomach starts to ache.

As I listened and tried to stifle my own giggles, I realized that since arriving, a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

“I can make you some less-chocolatey chocolate milk if you want.” Henna offered, wiping her eyes.

“You know what, I think I’m good,” I laughed, pulling up a stool to sit beside her. “You just sit there and finish-up. I’ll wait until you’re done.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

We started laughing again, and Henna choked quite a few times on her first sip, but then she somehow managed to control herself and looked over at me with those dark chocolate eyes and a lingering smile.

“Something on your mind?” She asked.

I arrived expecting that kind of perception from her, but it still made me pause momentarily.

“Mm… _something_.” I agreed quietly. I had absentmindedly looked down and away from her, slowly tapping my shoe against the counter. It was the only noise in the entire apartment, echoing off the walls. “I have to ask you…a favor.”

Henna was watching me carefully when I looked back up. Her mood had changed, but the lightheartedness remained. I saw it even as she drank chocolate milk from a straw in the side of her lips.

She remained quiet, letting me gather my words.

When I looked at my feet, my mind kept getting blanker and blanker, so I focused on her face instead. I looked at the dark freckles on her upper cheekbones, knowing that she had had them since she was a little girl. I looked at her tiny, round nose, and wondered if her twin sister had the same one. I looked at the large curls at the bottom of her warm brown hair, knowing she must have slept with it down the night before. I studied her dark eyes and eyelashes, thankful there was no scrutiny hiding behind them.

I looked at her pale lips, remembering how they felt against mine.

“It’s a pretty big favor.” I said in a low, hypnotized voice.

Henna almost smiled, having stopped drinking her milk; to help me out, she scooted the stool closer, so that our knees were touching. She knew that contact helped in moments such as these.

I swallowed whatever fear I had and inched my hand forward—but I couldn’t bring myself to touch her, even though I wanted to, even though I was looking her straight in the eyes, and we always absentmindedly hold hands when we look at each other. The memories were becoming painfully clear. I couldn’t remember the last time I remembered this well.

“I need you to touch me, Henna.”

—*—

It was just shy of three years ago, almost to the exact date. I was woken-up by a call from the police station at midnight, telling me that my younger brother was in a holding cell for driving under the influence. My parents were at a play that night (not that he would have given them that number anyway), so I answered the phone.

“Hello?” I asked groggily.

“Raven Harper? This is Officer Trappler from the police station.”

“Okay…”

“You’re Reese Harper’s older brother, correct? We have him here in a holding cell. We caught him driving on the highway while under the influence of alcohol. We’d really appreciate it if you or your guardians could come down here.”

At that point, I was already pretty pissed-off. Earlier in the night, Reese and I had gotten into an argument about his partying, which only resulted in him _leaving_ for a party and me fuming about his erratic teenage behavior. He couldn’t leave the police station because he was only seventeen at the time.

I, on the other hand, was only twenty.

“Okay. I’ll be down there in a few minutes. Thanks.” (I’ve never said such a meaningless thank-you in my entire life.)

“Thank you, sir. See you in a bit.”

I more-or-less threw the phone across the room before regaining my composure. After tossing a hoodie and some shoes on, I grabbed the keys, hopped in my car, and drove to the station near the center of the city. I used the fifteen-minute drive to sulk, asking myself questions like “How could you let your little brother drift onto this path?” and “Why did you let him go out tonight? He could have killed someone!”

When I arrived, I took note of the dark, but empty streets around me. There was a shadowed section of fenced-off alleyways in between the station and a 7/11 store. I knew I would need some coffee after this ordeal, so I made sure to grab a couple bucks and stuff them into my pajama pants pocket. I also grabbed a small can of pepper spray, in case Reese decided to be more aggressive than usual in his drunken state.

“Raaaaaven!!!” My brother called as I walked in. “You’re here!”

I tried to ignore how my cheeks heated up in vexation as one of the officers came forward.

“You’re Raven?” He asked. I nodded stiffly as he shook my limp hand politely. “I’m Officer Trappler. We found your brother here driving around with some other kids on the highway. Their car was swerving all over the place, so we pulled them over. He’s still pretty intoxicated, way past the limit of .08%…we tried to get ahold of your parents, but he didn’t know the number and told us to call the ‘Raven-bird’ on his phone.”

I scowled at Reese as he stumbled towards the front of the cell. His eyes were glazed, his mouth hung open stupidly. I guess he didn’t look any different than usual.

“Am I supposed to sign something?” I asked, not looking forward to dragging my brother to the car.

“Well since your brother is only seventeen, we can’t release him to anyone other than his parents or guardian. We were hoping you’d have better luck getting ahold of them.” The officer explained.

“Alright,” I sighed, whipping my phone out. “I’ll call them.”

I figured they were on their way home by now, since it was a two-hour drive to wherever the play was being performed and they said they would be back by one-thirty. Reese kept trying to grab at me through the bars, which I only managed to stop by stepping on his hand. He cursed at me as I explained the situation to my parents; my mom was on her way to having a heart-attack, and my dad gruffly thanked me for being such a good kid after taking a moment to mentally threaten Reese with everything under the sun.

“They’ll be here in about an hour.” I told the officers.

“You bastard, Raven…” Reese slurred, flipping me off.

“Be quiet, Reese. I hope Dad kicks your ass when we get home.”

The officers offered me a seat, but I knew I needed to get away from my brother before I _really_ got angry. I told them I would be back with my parents in an hour, and left the station to cool-down.

 _You stupid idiot, Reese_. I thought, shaking my head as I leaned against the outside wall. _You could’ve killed someone tonight. Didn’t you hear anything I said earlier? Nothing good comes from drinking. No matter what you think, it never affects only you. Never. So why do you keep doing it? Don’t you know that it pains Mom to see you like that? Don’t you remember the stories Dad told us about his alcoholic grandfather? Don’t you care at all?_

I ended-up standing there for a few minutes, trying to cool myself off. Just as I was about ready to leave, someone else exited the police station.

I froze in my spot when I realized it wasn’t a policeman getting off duty. After seeing the man, I recognized him as the other person being held-up in the cell next to Reese’s. I hadn’t looked at him directly, and barely knew he was there. The other teenagers with Reese had already been taken away by their parents.

I’m not as foolish as my little brother; I know not to look strangers in the eye on the streets. This time was no different. I kept my head down, watching the man’s feet as he stopped in the middle of the street. I couldn’t help but notice, out of my peripheral vision, that he seemed to be looking in my direction.

A small clinking noise echoed through the night, and I peered up a little further, seeing the man light a cigarette.

As my suspicions predicted, he was staring at me. It was a cold stare, empty of real emotion, any type of intelligence. Despite that last fact, I felt disturbingly uneasy. That cold stare was directed towards me. There was nobody else on the street. Just me.

Grasping back my fury against Reese, I used it to look the man in the eyes, hoping to give an intimidating glare. _It must be Irritate Raven Day_ , I thought in annoyance. _Now I’ve got to worry about being harassed by a drug-dealer. If it gets any worse, I’m going home and leaving Reese to deal with Dad’s wrath all by himself._

I glared at the man underneath my eyelashes.

 

He smiled.

 

A chill went through my body. My eyes were glued on him now, still glaring, and I prayed that my sudden strike of fear hadn’t been too obvious. I held my breath as the man started to walk away, down the street; I didn’t release it until I saw him disappear.

 _It’s Saturday night_ , I thought, gathering my courage again. _Why do I have to deal with this stuff? I have a test on Monday. What did I do to deserve an all-nighter?_

Coffee suddenly didn’t sound like the best idea at 12:15, so I walked down to the 7/11, making sure to keep an eye-out behind me, and bought some apple juice. It’s interesting how, in spite of what would happen in the next hour, I can remember every detail beforehand, even one as small as that.

Maybe that’s just what I tell myself to remember, in hopes of washing out what I _actually_ remember.

When I stepped outside, the streets were empty, just like before. I looked both ways, and began heading back down to the police station. I kept thinking about how mad my Dad would be at Reese. I wondered if he would disown him or something. _Half of the time I really do love him_ , I thought, zipping my sweatshirt up. _He’s my little brother. We had baths together, we played together, we chased each other…but that was a long time ago. If he doesn’t shape-up soon, what’s going to become of him? He won’t have anyone left if he keeps this up. What if he never—_

It happened in slow motion: as I turned my head to the right, the man who had exited the police station grabbed onto my hoodie. In the same motion, I dropped the container of apple juice and began to reach for my pepper spray.

That was when the other man came.

Another guy, the accomplice, ran out from the same shadow the cigarette man had been hiding amongst and latched onto my other shoulder. Knowing I would have to do something before reaching my pepper spray, I opened my mouth to scream as loudly as possible. Before any noise could escape, the second guy pounded me across the head with his fist; my skull began to shake, and everything went black for a moment.

I thought he’d left me alone. I thought he’d forgotten about me…

I guess he changed his mind. Evil never weighs its options.

The punch hadn’t made me unconscious. My head was pounding uncontrollably, but I was still awake. It took me a second to make my eyes open; when I managed, I saw the blurry, distorted image of trees above me. There was wetness and other uncomfortable substances across my back. I forced my head to clear, going into survival mode; I realized that the trees were the ones belonging to the park nearby.

The two men (for lack of better term) were dragging me through the park.

I tried to call out, to scream, to make some sort of noise, but nothing happened. Everything was foggy. It was like I lost the right to control my body. It just wouldn’t listen to me, no matter how desperately I pleaded.

The men stopped, and my feet fell to the ground, limp.

“Let’s have some fun here, _Raven_.”

“Raven? Pfff. What kind of a name is that?” The second one cackled. Their voices were both slurred, difficult to understand.

“A fucking faggot kind of name, that’s what.” The cigarette man answered with an equally chilling laugh. “Come on, let’s hurry. You start up there, I’ll start down here.”

A cold, rough hand unzipped my hoodie. It sent alarm through my nerves—then I felt a different set of hands start to untie my pajama pants.

Following a dark laugh, that same pair of hands palmed over—

The alarm amplified into unspeakable horror.

 _No…no...no, no, no!!!_ I thought in absolute panic, feeling my fingers finally start to react to my commands. _This can’t be happening, this won’t happen…I can’t let it happen…why is this happening? I have to stop them. I can’t let them do this to me. How do I stop them? Can I stop them from doing this to me? Why are they doing this to me?_

All too soon, I felt a rush of cold air hit my arms. The second man had managed to get my hoodie off. He didn’t toss it very far, and I could still feel the fabric from one of the sleeves. The pepper spray was in the left pocket. I told myself that if I could just _grab it_ —

The cigarette man yanked my pants down before I could finish that thought.

I was finally able to begin thrashing then, incapable of handling the idea of what was coming. The trauma of the mere _thought_ sent me into hysteria. I launched myself towards my hoodie, managing to just _barely_ land a finger on the surface of the pepper spray bottle. I was so close. Just a few more inches and maybe...

The second man grabbed onto my hair and tore me backwards. As if I wasn’t in enough pain, the cigarette man swore at me and brought his fist down on my lower back, right where the tailbone connected to the rest of my lower back.

For a second, I wondered if I had just been paralyzed. I don’t know if I would call the feeling “relief” when I managed to feel a violent, bruising slap on my behind not more than two seconds later. I was in the middle of a yelp when it happened again, on the other side, five-times harder.

As I tried to writhe around, out of their violent grip, my instincts realized that my voice was working again.

“HEL—!”

The second man shoved his fist into my mouth, hitting most of my teeth in the process. I brought my hands up to claw and scratch at him, but the cigarette guy stopped my actions by straddling me and pinning my arms down against the ground.

“ _Shut the fuck up_!” One of them hissed. There were black spots all over my vision, but I could still see those cold, empty eyes bearing down at me like an animal. “Hurry-up and get his fucking shirt off, Nick.” He said. “Can’t wait forever.”

“What if he screams again?”

I closed my eyes to avoid seeing his smile again.

“Find another way to keep his mouth occupied.”

My legs began kicking and thrashing again, but nothing came of it. I didn’t stop, even though, at that moment, I realized just how weak my body actually was. Or perhaps…maybe I realized just how powerful feeling evil made people feel—how much power it gave them to know that what they were doing was inexplicably wrong and horrifying.

“Turn him over.”

The second man, Nick, obeyed the leader and flipped me over onto my stomach, while still keeping his fist in my mouth. I kept trying to drool as much as possible, in hopes of diminishing my risk of choking. The first man continued to straddle me; in this new position, it was difficult to fight back against anything. My back hurt beyond words, and my head was still struggling from the blow.

I knew, deep down, no matter how many times I denied it, that this was only the beginning of my pain.

“Having fun yet, Isaiah?” Nick laughed. The wind was loud, but I didn’t understand how no one heard the struggle.

“I’m about to.” The man revealed to be Isaiah growled back.

My boxers were pulled down in one swift motion and discarded, along with the rest of my clothes, and my dignity. When I moved to try and cover myself, Isaiah gripped my ribs so tightly I let out a muffled yelp. At this point, I only had socks and tennis shoes on; my feet were still cold.

Nick pulled his fist out of my mouth. I gasped for air and coughed on my own drool while they laughed into the night; Isaiah started situating himself in a more comfortable position. After a second or two, I tried to look-up, only to see Nick starting to unbutton his own pants.

“ _HELP_ —“

My bloody murder scream was cut short by Isaiah choking me from behind. I felt the damage to my throat instantly; the consequence for attempting to attract help came a few minutes later.

As they started… _playing_ with my body, I kept wondering why I hadn’t fallen unconscious yet. I knew, if I survived, that I would definitely have a concussion the following day. Of all the things that went through my head, that was one of the most reoccurring. Why couldn’t I fall unconscious? The other was the disgusting fact that the men kept saying my name throughout the entire process. 

“Hey Raven,” Nick cackled, forcing me to look at him. “You sure are a pretty little boy!”

“I bet he sucks more than Candice.” Isaiah chimed-in.

“Ha! Is that it, Raven? Is that what you do in your free time?”

I didn’t answer. That got me an unaccountable number of slaps to my behind again. _Why?_ I wondered in agony, using some of my last bits of energy to try and squirm away. _Why am I still conscious? Is there no mercy?_

Despite my dangling sanity from the actions before, I didn’t start crying until my virginity was seconds away from being taken.

It hurt. It was so personal it hurt. I swore I could _feel_ the part of my brain where emotional pain resides. It ached. I couldn’t understand why; I didn’t know why my body refused to shut down. I didn’t know why it was letting this happen to me. I didn’t know why, despite my exhaustion, the abuse to my body, and the blow to my head, that I was still awake, able to feel every _brutal_ , _degrading_ sensation the two men were inflicting up on me.

“Are you ready, Raven?” Isaiah whispered into my ear. I whimpered. Nick laughed from where he was at, doing other things. “Sure you are. You were ready from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

That was one of the worst parts…the one that bothered me the most. They kept saying my name. They said it over and over again, like they were friends with me, like they knew me on a personal level. I guess…for what they were doing…they _did_ know me on a personal level. They must have, for their words to affect me so severely.

 

I never hated my name more than on that night.

 

“ _Stoooop_!!!” I wailed, throat scratchy, the first batch of tears flowing-out as Isaiah lined-up his violation. “ _Please_ stop _, please don_ —!“

My pleas were cut-off by an appalling, _painful_ scream, which Nick was quick to cover-up with his hand. I guess they knew even a slap couldn’t prevent me from sobbing at that point.

I still remember every single one of my cries. Every aching cough, every distressing scream of pain, every heart-wrenching howl, every beg of mercy…Nick muffled and prevented them from being so loud using his own method, but I could still hear. I heard _each_ and _every_ one. They echoed in my memory for months. Certain noises or tones of voice would trigger an onslaught of my own cries of anguish.

Naturally, whenever I managed to suck-in a breath here and there, I begged and pleaded for them to stop.

“S-Stop!!!…it _hurts_ , it _hurts_!!!...p-lease _stop_ , please!…ple- _ase_ …” 

As it turns out, begging and sobbing only spurred them on. 

Every movement became ruthless, savage, ferocious, with the intent to scar me in every possible way. They succeeded in more ways than they could ever imagine: I had deep indents on my scraped knees, black bruises all over my skin, filthy bodily fluids stained and drizzled over my entire body (and inside places I’d rather not say), damaged tissue in my throat, marks on my wrists, aches in my chest, burning pain in my lower back, hyperextension of my hipbones, blood (possibly a dent) wetting down my hair, and—like I could _ever_ forget…the battered, soiled, _mangled_ , bleeding-profusely, _aching_ , _raw_ , _throbbing_ _insides_ of my poor lower extremity…

It’s still too early to talk about what affect their actions had on my heart.

They were not, by all means, smart men…but they were _evil_ men. No criminal such as them can ever be considered smart. I told myself that, later on. It helped a little.

Everything hurt. Even the parts they hadn’t touched were in pain. I needed to throw-up, but I couldn’t because I was crying too hard, and because my mouth was already occupied. At one point, when Isaiah finished, and I had never felt more revolted and horrorstricken in my entire life, I wished they would start beating me to death. I asked God to grant my wish, because somehow, what they were doing to my body hurt (for lack of better synonym) a hundred times worse than having your limbs ripped off, one by one, muscle by muscle.

Nick did the same thing, too, once Isaiah was done. I foolishly let myself believe he wanted only half a part in this sinful act. I couldn’t tell you if the second time hurt worse than the first. I couldn’t tell you how many types and forms of pain there are in the world.

 

I can tell you that I never did fall unconscious. Not even when they were both finished.

 

I could tell you more in-depth than I already have about the actual rape, but I vowed to never speak of it again. I only repeated what they did to me once, hours later. I’m apologize if this bothers you. Someday I’ll be able to help people more…I hope it comes sooner than I imagine. Honestly. I really do hope that one day, I’ll be able to tell people the details, more than I already have, because…it helps me, believe it or not.

The second time through, as I laid on the ground, partly kept up by Nick’s tight grip, trying to scrounge up some last ounces of strength, I caught sight of something glimmering on my wrist; it was my watch.

**12:55 PM**

It had only been forty minutes.

Helping the watch didn’t help. I think, in fact, it made things much worse, but I kept doing it. I would have even watched one of those new, horribly-acted, terribly-scripted comedies or romance films—anything to distract from what was actually going on.

When the clock hit 1:00, right at the time Nick’s fun was slowing, my mind started to drift away. 

I couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. _Finally_ , I remember thinking. _Finally, I’m granted some mercy. I won’t be there to see them kill me and hide my body in a bush. I won’t be there when my mom starts crying. I won’t be there to feel this pain anymore…_

I was abruptly jerked back into my conscious state by Nick beginning his assault _a second time._ Altogether, the _fourth_ time I was violated that night.

“Hey Raven,” He laughed through his panting. “Did you wanna finish too?”

 

At exactly 1:10 in the morning, I realized I was alone.

 

When Nick was done, they must have bolted. I don’t know how I didn’t notice, but when I felt a shiver go up my spine from the cold wind, it clicked; there was no longer anyone behind or beside me, “shielding” me from the weather. I was still in the same position, naked, bleeding, beaten, shivering in the middle of the park.

I fell the few inches to the ground; the sobs had been stuck in my throat for the longest time, hidden behind the absolute agony overwhelming my senses. My mind was blank, so I just listened for a moment, and heard nothing.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sound.

My brain finally allowed me to throw-up, and I spent a good ten minutes doing that. It didn’t help. Not really. I think maybe my body thought it would be a positive release, since I wasn’t exactly lacking bodily fluids from each man all over myself; maybe it thought emptying the rest of my stomach would help. My throat hurt even worse than before, but the thing that really made what had just happened a reality was the resurgence of my right state of mind.

When I pulled myself into a sitting position and caught sight of my quivering, bloody thighs, I started crying again.

Since there are various types of tears, I guess you could consider these ones to be pitiful tears. I was distressed now. The anguish had taken permanent residence (shadowed in the background of my mind for many months), but the despair, the sadness, the sorrowful emotion of dehumanization was taking its toll. My sensitivity was starting to realize just _how_ _bad_ what had _just happened_ made me feel.

While I wept, I somehow managed to pull on my clothes. How I pulled that off will always be a mystery to me. All I remember was that I didn’t want to look at my legs. Another half hour passed by in a blur, because I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t even stand. My first attempt resulted in me getting one knee up, and collapsing onto the ground half-a-second later, with the last of my self confidence being ripped from my body.

I was distraught beyond reason. I was miserable. I didn’t put it into words or thoughts—I just let my emotions take over for a while. Maybe that was a “pussy” thing to do for a twenty-year-old guy, but if the day comes when you’re brutally raped by two men, maybe you can defend my tears.

At 1:50 AM, Sunday morning, I managed to listen to that voice in my head, and stood-up on my trembling legs. My hips hurt _so badly_. The voice repeated over and over, “Go to the station. Go to the station _._ ” My instincts told me the same thing.

So, with my entire lower body aching, burning, and shaking uncontrollably, I drug myself through the park, in the direction of the station.

When I made it there, at 2:15 AM, my parents were standing outside, talking to two policemen, one of which, was Officer Trappler. There were cop cars with their red and blue lights on, and other officers with scent dogs on leashes.

Reese was passed out in the passenger seat of our car.

Weeks after, my parents told me how they had arrived a little later than they expected, and found no one but Reese and Officer Trappler at the station. Most of the other cops had gone home for the night. They asked where I was, because they knew I had been there and had been the one who called them. Trappler said I left to go to the 7/11 over an hour ago.

Naturally, everyone became concerned. They said they tried calling my cell-phone, which, apparently, Isaiah and Nick had stolen from me immediately. Once it got to be 1:40, they called in more officers, who then checked with the cashier at the 7/11. She didn’t have any useful information, other than the fact that I came in without any signs of distress or injury. Reese was absolutely no help, of course.

Due to my laid back, healthy, responsible lifestyle, my parents figured the only reason I wasn’t contacting them was because something terrible had happened. Officer Trappler called the search dogs in, and more cops came to offer their services. They found the apple juice container, but couldn’t determine anything from it. Before they could get to work, I came limping and whimpering down the street, on the opposite side of where I had been snatched.

My mom was already crying anxiously before that point, and when she saw me, a few more tears trickled out. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, after her and my dad ran to me, that she almost passed out from how hard she was crying. They reached me first, and my dad immediately recognized that I was seriously injured, and took me in his arms as I collapsed.

“Raven!” My mom yelped, trying to hug me while also trying to check my injuries. “What happened?! Where were you, are you okay?!”

Although I had never been happier to see my mother, I knew what I was about to say would hurt her possibly more than it had hurt me to go through.

I said it anyway.

My dad hurriedly wiped my tears away as I tried to speak. He looked really worried. I huffed a few times, trying to remember the word. I couldn’t remember. I knew it was an awful word, a poisonous word that I had never said out-loud before. In my delusions, I wondered if my parents even knew the word.

“ _Ra-pe_.” I sobbed, looking my mother straight in the eyes.

She paused, staring at me with tear-filled eyes before stuttering out in a whisper “W- _What_?”

I shut my eyes and sobbed the word out again.

“T-Two m-men r— _raped_ me.”

I don’t really want to tell you what happened after that. Long story short, I’ve never seen my mother cry so hard before. I’ve never seen _anyone_ cry that hard before. Not even me, an hour before, had been crying that hard. A cop had to come hold her on her feet because my dad was too busy trying to hold _me_ together. I almost felt guilty, but my emotions were too… _conquered_ for me to specify on feelings.

I remember my dad’s face from that night. For some reason, I stared at him a lot in those long hours. Sometimes I tried to see our resemblance. He was deathly pale, his eyes were indescribable, and he had the most horrified expression on his face—the sight was almost too much for me to bear.

When he went to hug and console me, I stopped him.

“You _can’t_ - _n’t_ t- _touch_ me,” I wept. “You c-can’t _touch_ me until I’m c-clean.”

My dad’s not really an obedient type of guy, but he listened to me that night. Reese always said he does whatever I want, even if seems like he’s ignoring my suggestions. I don’t know if that’s true, but I was thankful anyway.

Unfortunately, my dad had to go through his crying stage, too.

My mother couldn’t stop sobbing and clinging to me, so my dad told the cops to keep her with Reese while he accompanied me to the hospital. She kept apologizing to me for some reason. And I heard every word, because my senses were back in action. I wished for everything to slow down, and to not hurt as much. I still couldn’t believe what had happened.

For all I had been through, I think the worst part of that night was telling the policemen what happened. That was when I saw my dad cry for the first time in my whole life. 

Because of my cooperation and willingness to go through all of the medical procedures, the “clean-up” went rather quickly, and therefore, the doctors were able to get a brain-scan only thirty-minutes after the incident. My dad later told me that I was the toughest son of a bitch he ever knew for not panicking or delaying their aid to me.

The doctors were worried about the blow to my head, and in the process of examining the scan, a psychiatrist (who had been called-in to talk to me) noticed that there was an unusual pattern of dark colors overwhelming the rest of my brain’s colors. I didn’t know what that meant until the trial, months later. Apparently, where there should have been reds and yellows, there was dark blue, accented by a hint of a light red circle in the back corner; aka, Post Dramatic Stress Disorder. A few weeks later, when they checked for brain injury again, the color red had been replaced by three yellow spots, still engulfed by the dark blue; aka, depression.

 

Later on, that would be one of the best pieces of evidence in the case against Nick and Isaiah.

 

At four o’clock in the morning, the detectives visited with me as I laid in my hospital bed.

On the scene, I had already named the criminals, but this was the real deal, the story, the explanation—to be honest, I wish we had done that part first. As eager as I was to be tested for multiple STD’s, I wanted people to know what happened much more. And I really, _really_ wanted to take a shower, or a bath, or even get a hose down. And I wanted to brush my teeth, or pour bleach down my throat. I just wanted the stains, visible _and_ invisible, to go away. I didn’t want to see the smeared remnants of the old blood, and I didn’t want to see the droplets of the new blood. It was _my_ blood, and I didn’t want to see it, because I knew where it was dripping from.

Despite my lingering thoughts at the time, I can still pinpoint the exact sentences that made my dad lose his composure.

“And they—didn’t use any type of lubrication or anything?” The detective asked. “No protection, nothing?”

“No,” I answered hoarsely. “Just forced it in.”

Strike one. My dad looked at me wide-eyed and began tearing-up.

“And you told them to stop, correct? You asked them to stop several times because you were in pain?”

I nodded. “I begged them to stop. They laughed at me and started… _doing_ it… _worse_.”

Strike two. My dad covered his mouth in pain as the first tear fell.

“And so…the second man—Nick—he stood by for a few minutes? Didn’t try to help you or anything?” The detective asked calmly. I shook my head. “And then you said he joined in, is that correct?”

“They didn’t enter me at the same time,” I tried to clarify. “B-But he forced me to do other things while Isaiah was raping me.”

Strike three.

My dad began to cry into his hands.

After that, my blood was taken to be tested for STD’s, and I finally got my shower; only, I couldn’t stand on my own anymore, so the nurses had to help. Hadn’t been on a date in all of my twenty-years, and in six hours, about ten people saw me completely naked. I thought that as I took a shower, and when I started laughing at the irony, the nurses began to think I was going crazy.

I didn’t really care. I just wanted my insides to be clean.

When we went home Tuesday night, Reese had finally slept off his hangover. Unfortunately, for the three of us, his idiocrasy and insensitivity remained. When we came home (my dad insisted on carrying me up the driveway), he was watching TV on the couch. We all stared at him when he casually greeted us. I stared because I was in pain, withdrawn, and frighteningly unstable. My mother stared because both of her sons were causing her pain. My dad? Well…his stare had a lot of emotions hidden within it. I think it was mostly disgust. And rage. Lots and lots of rage.

The recovery period either started immediately, or not until five months later. I can’t be sure. I think for my dad, it started when he gave Reese the word-beating of a lifetime the night we came home. I slept in my room with my mom, but she was awake, and said it lasted hours. She was amazed I slept through all the screaming. He bought some books on alcoholism after that and tried to force my brother to go to rehab.

Long story short, Reese didn’t change much.

I think he works for some oil company now. He doesn’t have a license anymore, thank goodness. I remember a few days after, when I saw him, _really_ saw him, for the first time since the rape, he wouldn’t stop talking. He stared at me, too. I spent the first few days dividing my time between the roof and my bedroom. To go into the kitchen for the first time and be attacked by insensitivity and, in my dad’s eyes, the reason I was raped…well—I panicked pretty damn quickly.

“Could you lower your voice?” I asked shakily after a minute of his rambling.

“Oh right, sorry, duh. Probably shouldn’t be talking so loud. I can leave you alone, if you want, Johnny and I were going to go down to the creek and get fucking w—I mean, have some fun.” Reese rephrased with a laugh. I was staring at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Well, anyway, I made some mac and cheese, there’s some leftover if you want it. See ya later, okay?”

That was one of the last conversations I ever had with him.

 

The recovery for me?

 

Well…what can you do, really, so early in the process? At first, I just laid around and tried to let my body heal itself. The amount of stress I was under 24/7 was what really changed me. There was only a week of college left, thankfully, and I somehow managed to focus enough to take my final test online. Miraculously, I aced it.

But the _stress_ …the _stress_ I felt _all the time_ , sleep or awake, was ridiculously overwhelming. I didn’t know what to focus on first. I thought I should heal the physical wounds first, but then I got to worrying about the blood tests and my summer homework and the flowers my friends left me and how I couldn’t look at my legs anymore and how I showered and bathed with clothing on—I even had a panic attack over the article in the paper.

_ Two men were arrested early Sunday morning and charged with the rape of a 20-year-old college student. The male victim had been at the police station for other reasons before leaving at around 12:20 a.m. _

“I’m the only 20-year-old college student in town!” I remember wailing when my mother came into the room. “Everyone’s gunna know it was me! Everyone’s gunna know!!!”

I was starting to become a nervous wreck.

The blood tests ended-up being clear, which I considered a miracle, and my other injuries were (technically) non-fatal. Severe, but non-fatal. My reproductive system would be okay (yay). I stayed away from people and loud noises, just so my head would be clear. I read a lot of my favorite books. Listening to music helped a lot. I have a pretty high-pain tolerance, but when pain starts to annoy me and disrupt my everyday life, I get really overwhelmed and emotional. That happened quite often. The concussion hurt like a bitch, too. And let’s not forget the stress that followed me around like a parasite.

For three months after, I couldn’t talk to my friend Drew about his life, because Drew is gay, and even though he and his boyfriend have never been intimate with each other, I just couldn’t—I don’t know… _deal_ with it.

Most people have nightmares about their past experiences, but I didn’t. The memories came during the day, when I was awake. They weren’t really even memories…it was more like… _presences_. Constant sensations and beliefs that I was being touched and hurt. Whenever my injuries acted up, or on the days when it was painful to walk (the effects lasted so long because I had badly torn muscles from my stress and tenseness during the rape), I would take two-hour long baths.

 _Most_ of the time, they helped.

Of course, when my relaxation methods failed to work, I became so flustered and jittery that it was hard to get me to do anything. I’m not usually a stubborn person, but my mom said during the first five-weeks, I had a higher head than my father. Eventually that phase faded, but not before I lost about thirty pounds. I spent a lot of time researching the five stages of grief, because knowing these things have names comforts me in a strange way.

For a while, I liked being touched.

I loved it when my mom hugged me, because she gives the best hugs. She would lie in bed with me while I read sometimes, just keeping quiet with a hand rested on my arm. I loved it when my dad ruffled my hair up or challenged me to an arm wrestling competition. I loved it when he gripped my shoulder with his hand, like I was his best friend. These were all reminders that a nice kind of touching did exist in my life. 

After a while, I _didn’t_ like being touched.

I hated it when people stood behind me. I left the house more often than what was probably considered healthy for someone who had just been gang-raped, but my parents thought that was cool, until I came home twitching uncomfortably after having been standing in line for a movie with Drew and his friends. Apparently, I blacked-out a few minutes later and said a bunch of weird shit, like how I didn’t like people’s arms brushing against me, and how I hadn’t liked it when some guy accidently fell into me.

I didn’t like it when my mom started touching my arm as I walked by. I didn’t like it when my dad investigated the bruising on my neck. I didn’t like it when I accidently wore a pair of socks that looked similar to the ones I had been wearing that night. I definitely did not like it when my grandma came over and patted my knee at the dinner table. Anything that touched my legs, I hated. I hadn’t looked at my thighs in months. Not even when I scrubbed them to death in the shower.

Drew (who I remembered was gay every single time I saw him) lightly grabbed my wrist to lead me somewhere, and I freaked-out—certain touches, people _or_ objects, just set me off, I guess.

One morning, I woke up and found my dog huddled up between my knees. I reacted so quickly I ended up kicking him hard, in the back, right on his stitches, since he had surgery only days earlier.

It’s safe to say, during my recovery, I cried a lot.

One of the worst effects of the rape was the fact that I now absolutely _hated_ hearing my name.

My mom didn’t know what to do with that. She loved my name, she had been the one who picked it out, and when I asked them to stop saying it so often, she almost started bawling. I couldn’t help what I felt every time someone said _Raven_. I hated it. I suffered through cringing for a month before I asked them to stop. Sometimes I would leave the room and _writhe_ around anxiously because I felt like worms were crawling under my skin. I swore I could feel the air against my ear whenever someone said it.

Sometimes, at night, I heard Isaiah whispering and groaning my name over and over and _over_ again. The tears were pretty much unstoppable in those moments.

During that early recovery time, I got a lot of hugs from my dad. It was as weird as it was comforting. We were close before, and he was always supportive of everything I did, but after that night, I guess he just…realized how awesome I really was. Seriously! He even said that to me once!

The recovery with my dad involved a lot of talks. Sometimes he would talk and I would listen, and sometimes he would ask me questions and listen while I talked; one time, he even told me that if any guy made fun of me for what I had been through, I should rip their nuts off and tell them the pain they’re feel is only a quarter of what I felt. I told him I wasn’t going to do that, but we got a good laugh out of it.

My mother was…very difficult to be around. She came up with a way to hold her tears in around me, but my dad said as soon as they went to bed, she would cry into her pillow for hours. This lasted many weeks. That really took a toll on me; that was when the guilt phase began. Instead of telling myself that I should have prevented the incident to save myself from the trauma, I began telling myself that I should have prevented it to save my mother from her heartbreak.

Well, like all mothers, she figured this act out pretty fast and put a stop to it. We managed to come to the agreement that a little guilt is okay, as long as neither of us held ourselves accountable for what happened to me.

 

Five months after I was raped, I met Henna at college in my Japanese Literature class.

 

She was called on to read a poem. I didn’t look up to see who this Henna girl was, but when she began reading, I had to hold in a gasp—her voice, her style, and her emotion made the words come to life. I never liked poetry before that day. Hearing my name come out of her mouth for the first time cleared my phobia.

The rest is history.

The monsters Nick and Isaiah were easily convicted, on account of the fluids, surveillance tapes, their previous criminal histories, and, of course, my brain scan. Isaiah was sentenced to life without parole, as was Nick. Isaiah was killed in prison a year later.

It helped tremendously to see them locked up. It really did. I was so thankful to the people who worked our case, because they were really nice about everything. But…the thing about it is…Nick and Isaiah’s actions couldn’t be undone. I was still feeling physical pain six-months later. The mental trauma was even worse, I think. I never became suicidal or anything, but…it’s true, what they say about righteousness.

Justice is only half-served by the courts; the other half can only come from God.

—*—

“I need you to touch me, Henna.”

She blinked once with concern, and I may or may not have pushed my thighs together as I spoke.

“I’m guessing you don’t mean like—this.” Henna said while pushing a finger against my arm.

“No,” I chuckled, grabbing that hand to hold it between mine. We were silent for a moment, and I tried to gather my words again. _What is it that I want_ , exactly? I asked, trying to remember. _I guess I came-up with the plan to have Henna…see me without clothes on. It was more complex than that, though. I want her to…make the memories go away. I want to replace them with something similar, but so completely opposite of what happened that its grandness substitutes the tragedy._

“What I mean is…I…want you to…” I struggled, shaking my head. “ _See_ me…and make the scars…disappear, or something?”

“Basically, what you’re saying is…” She said softly, making me raise my head to look at her. “You want me to intimately explore your body? The parts that they hurt?”

I was so relieved to see that she understood my intentions more than my words, because they were painfully vague.

“Yes,” I exhaled in surprise. “Yes, _exactly_ , Henna. I know it’s a strange request, but I’ve been worrying about it for a week now and to be honest, I’m getting really concerned, because I—“

I cut myself off, but it was too late. Henna probably already knew, anyway. I locked eyes with her as her expression fell a little. Even her hand became limp in between mine; that was how I knew she knew. Henna always knows.

“Because…you’re starting to feel like the rape only happened an hour ago.” She confirmed quietly.

I nodded.

I remember the first time I ever kissed Henna, before we were “officially” dating. I remember…how I was _so happy_. I was so happy that I went back to my apartment and started dancing with my roommate. I showered with my clothes off and didn’t think about why. I beamed until I went to bed.

Then….later that same night…I remembered the rape.

The horrifying realization came to me: the evidence of what I had been forced to do to Nick was now on Henna.

According to my roommate, I pretty much shut down after that. it was only eleven, but I had already sunken into my overthinking mode, without any distraction or reasoning to prevent me from falling back into that guilty shadow again. I felt worse than ever. I felt inexplicably mortified. I felt worse than how I felt _during_ the rape, worse than how I felt _after_ the rape, worse than how I felt when my parents realized the depth of my agony…somehow… _this_ feeling was worse than all of that.

I knew I didn’t have any diseases, but I guess my instincts wouldn’t hear it. I kept telling myself that I had just ruined Henna’s life. Forever. And I convinced myself, throughout the sleepless night, that I needed to end things with her before it got out of hand. Before we became closer, and therefore, became more intimate.

 

Before we became one, and my pain became hers.

 

And so, the next day, I skipped Japanese Literature; and when Henna texted me, asking where I was, I said I was sick, and that I needed to talk to her. Neither of us ever said stuff like that; if we needed to talk, we just said it. That’s how comfortable we were with each other.

Well—long story short, when I opened the door and saw her smiling at me, the entire plan flew out the window. I was glad. I was already half in love with her, and we hadn’t known each other for more than four months—no part of me wanted to say goodbye yet. The thought was just completely ridiculous. So, I ended-up telling Henna everything. Thankfully, it was a Friday, so we had all weekend to recover.

By the end of my tale, I didn’t even realize I had been crying silent tears the entire time. Henna wiped them away, even though she had so many I imagined it was difficult to see anything. She was trying not to sob. We hugged for about an hour, and all the while, Henna whispered (cried) gentle, but powerful assurances into my ear.

“Thank you for telling me, Raven…you’re so brave…you’re so incredible…I’m so thankful you made it through…you’re okay now, don’t you worry…I can help you, if you want…you’ve already come so far, I just can’t believe it…you’re amazing, Raven…”

That certainty and confidence in her words…it made me realize just how much hope I still had left. I didn’t doubt anything she promised. Not in the slightest. I didn’t think I was contaminating her anymore. And now…we’re here. We’ve been “romantic friend-buddies,” as Henna likes to say, for five-months. We kiss nice and slow, yet often, and once in a while, we lay on the couch and kiss _a lot_.

I guess that’s when I noticed it.

There was this… _weird_ feeling…hovering in the back of my mind. I already knew it was there—that was one of the first things I noticed after the rape—but when I was kissing Henna one day…it was like I felt someone pinch me. I could suddenly _feel_ Isaiah’s hands grabbing my sides, even though Henna was on the ground, and I was on the couch. It wasn’t either of our faults; it was just a reminder.

“I noticed it the other day,” I explained, all-too-familiar pain shooting through my chest. “We were just…doing what we always do, and I guess…I remembered too much. Not that it was your fault.”

Henna nodded, not taking her eyes off me. She looked heartbroken, but I’ve learned to not feel guilty about that. Scientifically and technically, the rape wasn’t my fault. I have nothing to feel guilt over. That wasn’t my problem right now; right now, my problem was tainted presence.

“I’ve been…haunted, you could say, this past week.” I continued slowly. “The reminder in the back of my head just…keeps getting stronger and stronger. I wake-up in the morning thinking I’m lying in that _stupid_ park again, after they finally finished with me…” I shook my head and let out a frustrated breath. “It’s not just flashes, either. It’s like the images in front of me are being replaced and morphed to fit into that situation—all over again.”

Henna opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t. I rubbed my hands over hers to distract myself from the memories again. I was usually good with blocking them out around her—until recently.

“This is just one solution I thought of,” I added quickly, looking up. “If you have another idea, that’s great, but I just—I just thought this one through, and…I think…it would be one of the most efficient ways to become accustomed to… _those_ types of sensations.”

“And to replace the old sensations,” Henna agreed, moving her hand against mine. “And to heal the places that hurt the most.”

She gave me a wide smile as I stared in wonder.

“Alright—let’s go.”

“You’ll do it?” I clarified, jumping from my seat as she stood up.

Henna nodded, her eyes wide. “ _Of course_ , Raven. If I can help you in any way, besides being my lovely self, I want to do it.”

I went to hug her, but stopped, because I was confused; Henna was putting on her coat.

“Wait—where are we going?”

“To your apartment,” She answered. “I figure you’d be more comfortable in your own territory, you know…where it smells like you and stuff. That will probably put you at ease, and make it so that you’re in control of the situation, you know?”

“That’s—actually— _really_ smart,” I laughed suddenly, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it. “I can’t believe you—we’re going to—”

I hugged her then, as tightly as possible, and she giggled sweetly in my arms. We left a few seconds later, stomping a couple blocks away to my apartment. I knew my roommate wasn’t there, but after realizing that, my mind began to wander to other thoughts. Thankfully, Henna’s intervened before I could become too much of a nervous wreck.

“You’re not expecting like…third base or anything, are you?” She asked, peering-up at me.

“ _No, no, no_.” I shook my head frantically, eyes bulging. “Not even first base, really.”

“What do the bases even represent?”

“I—“ _Wait…what do the bases represent?_ “I actually…have no clue. It’s just a stupid metaphor.”

We laughed lightly, and the mood lifted a little.

“What I’m asking you to do is more of like…a fondling session. More intimate than the word ‘fondling,’ but…you’re just going to…body worship? I guess?” I tried to explain without sounding perverted. “It’s a…kind of recovery I thought you would be okay with. You are okay with it, right?” 

“Ooo!” Henna cheered in response. “It’ll be like a p—wait—no. Better not say that. It’s a little weird.”

“What were you going to say?” I asked curiously.

“It’ll be like…a petting zoo.” Henna confessed, hiding her laughs as she caught my expression.

“Uhh well, I’ll be honest with you, Henna,” I replied as she let her laughs get louder. “That’s probably the weirdest comparison I’ve ever heard.”

I had to hold her up as she giggled for a moment, and we continued strolling down the sidewalk, our pace slower now. The warm breeze reminded me of Henna, so it was inevitable that I couldn’t keep my gaze off her.

“I’d be more than willing to return the favor, if you want, Henna.” I offered quietly when she noticed me staring. My girlfriend gave me a small smile and shook her head.

“Maybe someday. Right now, you trusting me to do this is already a gift. I don’t need anything in return but your full recovery, Raven.”

Tears welled-up before I could stop them, and I forced myself to turn my head. Henna tugged on my jacket as a silent question.

“Damnit…” I mumbled to myself, partly laughing as she stopped us from moving forward. “I don’t want to cry before we even start, Henna!”

“ _I’m sorry_!” She laughed sympathetically as I dried the tears quickly. We linked our arms together and began the rest of the short walk to my apartment. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. While I was trying to fathom how understanding Henna is, she was thinking of something much different.

“It’s still that vivid, huh?” She reflected sadly.

I stayed silent.

“Like it only happened an _hour_ ago…even though it’s been two-years—but I guess that isn’t that long ago. Still…I know you don’t like hearing it, Raven, but I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry you have to re-live that so often.”

Henna looked over at me as I nodded solemnly. A smile then creeped its way to my lips, and I directed it towards at her.

“I’m not reliving it right now.”

“Good!” She beamed. “And in a few minutes, I’ll erase your memory, and pretty soon, you’ll be happy little Raven _all_ the time!”

With that in mind, we entered my apartment.

—*— 

The stress was starting to get to me; I even started _sweating_ , but after we walked inside, all of my nerves went away when Henna threw her coat down and said “Alright—pants off, mister.”

There were lots of things that made me blush even before we started; firstly, I changed into a pair of frighteningly short athletic shorts that I was ashamed to own. Secondly, I accidently landed on the bed in a “French boy” pose. Lastly, I got a fabric burn on my heel from shuffling up to the top of the bed too fast.

In other words, by the time Henna was ready, I was a stuttering mess.

I sat with my head in my knees for a few quiet minutes, just to mentally prepare myself. _It’s okay, Raven. It’s okay. Henna won’t let you down. She won’t do anything wrong. She won’t accidently do anything. She’ll be careful, kind, gentle—you have nothing to worry about. Well, except the fact that this totally oversteps the silent boundaries you two have set…but I’m sure that won’t affect your future sexual intimacy._

“Henna,” I said immediately, jerking my head up. “Are you going to want to have sex with me after this because this oversteps the boundaries of our relationship?”

Henna let out a sharp yelp of laughter before covering her mouth.

“What?” I asked, trying to force my own amusement down. “Is the idea of having sex with me so out-of-the-question you find it hilarious?”

“No!” She giggled, scooting closer to me on the bed. “No, I promise it’s not that. I can just tell you’re _totally_ freaking-out right now. You kinda look like you’re more nervous about _me_ being the one doing this to you, rather than being nervous about…you know.”

“Oh.” I said stupidly.

I squished myself inward uncomfortably as Henna watched me. I already felt bare enough as it was, wearing shorts, which I usually only wore when I was alone, since the rape, and…with her looking at me, I guess I just felt like—

Henna stood-up and sat close to me; when the bed dipped, my heart skipped a few beats. She pressed her forehead against mine, and we stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. My breathing was quicker now, but I forced myself not to flinch when Henna’s hand touched my cheek.

“Who am I, Raven?” She whispered.

“H-Henna,” I swallowed.

“I’m Henna. Your romantic friend-buddy,” My girlfriend smiled. “And you’re Raven Harper, my romantic friend-buddy. Henna,” She took my hand and laid it over her cheek. “And Raven.”

I couldn’t look away, _or_ disagree with her, even if I tried.

“Right,” I whispered. 

Henna gave me a quick kiss, then backed away, letting go of my hand. “Those shorts are cute,” She commented. “Did you want me to start with your legs first, then?”

“They’re not… _cute_.” I mumbled as she sat down in front of my legs. “I just figured…that place is the most damaged, so…yeah. Start there…please.”

I hadn’t meant for there to be so much desperation in my voice, but it became an unhealthy habit after the rape—whenever I say please, I end-up saying it like my life depends on it. Survival instincts, I guess. Either way, Henna noticed, and looked-up at me with concern.

“You’re in charge here, Raven…you know that, don’t you? This was your idea. You’re the planner. You tell me where you need to be touched to make the pain go away, and I’ll do it…okay?”

All the breath left my lungs at that realization, but I somehow managed to give her a firm nod. My heart was beating faster and faster. Her words seemed to sink in immediately, so not more than a minute later, I had managed to bend one knee-up and straighten the other one out, creating a small opening for Henna to slide into; I noted that this was the furthest I had opened my legs since being in the hospital two-years ago. She was propped-up on her elbows, staring at me, waiting for a command.

 “Don’t—“

I hesitated, biting my lip anxiously. Henna gave me a look of encouragement.

“Don’t…don’t use your hands, okay? I can’t—I can’t…”

“Okay.” Henna whispered to put me at ease. “I won’t use my hands.”

“I-I don’t know what you’ll use, b…“

Henna stopped me again by slowly lowering her head and planting a soft kiss on the inside of my straightened knee. A quiet gasp escaped my open mouth. She quickly glanced-up to see if everything was okay. Everything _was_ okay, but I just…the kiss was _just so_ …a _light_ sensation so foreign to me, so unknown to that part of my body, my legs, which had been abused by soaps and chemicals for the past two-years—it made me starts to wonder something.

 _If one single kiss to my knee affected me like that_ , I thought, staring at Henna with wide-eyes. _What is it going to feel like when she kisses my thighs, the place where my ghosts have been hiding for the past two-years?_

“Okay, Raven?” Henna asked softly.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak, so I gave her a big nod. She smiled and looked back down at my bare leg. In the midst of my recovery from the kiss, I noticed that Henna had made no attempt to do so again; she just stared at my leg for a minute or two. I couldn’t really see her eyes, but since I didn’t feel insecure or disgusting, I figured she wasn’t looking at it with contempt.

I inhaled quickly when I saw her move again.

This kiss wasn’t so much a kiss as it was…well, a nuzzle. Henna’s lips made a tiny, wet noise, and I released a shaky breath when she didn’t pull back. She kept her mouth softly planted on my skin, on top of my leg this time, a little bit higher. The cute tip of her nose grazed across the surface.

As this continued, and Henna kissed the inside of my thigh for the first time, I absentmindedly realized something:

I had not been raped an hour ago. This was not the same night, nor the same morning. I was not in the park. There was _not_ dried blood on my body. My thighs were _not_ quivering in agony. I had been raped two-years ago, by two criminals, in my own hometown.

Right at this very moment, I, Raven Harper, was lying in bed with my girlfriend, Henna, cherishing every touch, every sensation, as she tenderly peppered chaste, pure little kisses all over my pale thighs, which remained uncovered on account of my black-colored, suspiciously short athletic shorts.

I was clean; I was not covered in the body fluids of other people. I was free of pain; nothing was being forced into me, and my head didn’t hurt. I was comfortable; I was not being held-down against my will. I was in-control; I was not feeling degraded or dehumanized.

“ _Henna_ ,” I breathed in relief, overwhelmed in the best possible way as she planted a soft, fluttering kiss on the most sensitive part of my thigh. I wanted to cry from how loved and respected I felt. A few tears had slipped already, though I wasn’t paying attention enough to know what made them fall.

Henna peeked-up, eyes wide, clouded with hopeful devotion.

“ _Thank-you_.” I whimpered, returning the gaze.

She let her head fall onto my skin; I could feel wetness trickle off her cheek, but couldn’t bring myself to console her spirit, because I had just realized something else:

_I’m Raven, and I’m starting to recover._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and don't forget to comment or kudos or bookmark! You can also talk to me on Instagram or tumblr (even though I don't know how to use the latter) @ baku_bodhi
> 
> Have a nice day, and don't forget to tip your waiters. Oh, and you can visit my Haikyuu fanfic page Lady_Iwaizumi if you're down for some Danger Day MCR action...


End file.
